


Hunger

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Enoch daydreams about the beast, Eternal hunger, Forced feeding?, God of Plenty, M/M, Sort of noncon but not in a sexual way..., not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 10:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16596038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: Enoch was a god of plenty.He was tied to the desires of the land, he could feel in each soul and the need within it. Just as the beast could scent the hopes and fears of every living thing, he could feel their needs.Every soul that came into Pottsfeild thrummed with it a need, a need for peace, for food, for care. And Enoch had much to give with any soul that passed through his lands he poured into them.However none of the souls ever needed enough. He knew it was a foolish complaint, but he had so much, it overflowed into his lands. He wished they took more.He felt as though he was an ocean and each of them came with only a cup that needed to filled or even less and sometimes he sloshed over and left the mortals with a hollow glassy eyed look. Only once in every hundred years did he ever come across a soul that required even a bucketful of his plenty.But there was one soul so bottomless, so cavernous, so empty it made him drool to think of it, it tormented him. So close and hungry, such a need to be fed.Most souls if they felt even a sliver of that hunger would have come directly to Pottsfeild following the compass in their soul.But The Beast was not most souls.





	Hunger

Enoch was a god of plenty. 

He was tied to the desires of the land, he could feel in each soul and the need within it. Just as the beast could scent the hopes and fears of every living thing, he could feel their needs.

Every soul that came into Pottsfeild thrummed with it a need, a need for peace, for food, for care. And Enoch had much to give with any soul that passed through his lands he poured into them.

However none of the souls ever needed enough. He knew it was a foolish complaint, but he had so much, it overflowed into his lands. He wished they took more.

He felt as though he was an ocean and each of them came with only a cup that needed to filled or even less and sometimes he sloshed over and left the mortals with a hollow glassy eyed look. Only once in every hundred years did he ever come across a soul that required even a bucketful of his plenty.

But there was one soul so bottomless, so cavernous, so empty it made him drool to think of it, it tormented him. So close and hungry, such a need to be fed. 

Most souls if they felt even a sliver of that hunger would have come directly to Pottsfeild following the compass in their soul. They would have clawed their way into him desperate to be fed.

But The Beast was not most souls. The Beast had once told him when Enoch had asked, that it was an eternal hunger, that he cannot be filled. Enoch decided to take ‘cannot’ as ‘has not’.

In his barn he lulled his head, there was no consequence for daydreaming, so he imagined The Beast wrapped in his ribbons. Pouring into the dark wood frame, feeling The Beast tense in his coils.

Giving and giving to what seemed an endless void. The Beast’s bottomless hunger begging to be filled by his endless plenty. He wants to pour satisfaction upon The Beast over and over until the man is limp and his hunger is but a pleasant buzz and then he wants to douse the hunger in his plenty.

The Beast complained that his town reeked of complacency and scented of satisfaction, not fear or hope. Enoch thought that that was a good thing; The Beast begged to differ. Enoch could had no nose in this body, but he wanted to pour into the beast until his barn reeked of The Beast’s pleasure.

Then he would relax, The Beast tangled in his streamers unable to even move without Enoch knowing his every move. And he could just watch The Beast’s sated form wrapped sluggishly move in his coils.

If Enoch was capable of salivating he would be drooling.

He could feel the beast only six acres away in his wood moving between the trees, a gaping void in a land of plenty, oh how tempting it was, he could simply shift his vines and wrap then around The Beast’s feet. He shook the thought from his head, it was likely that if he sent his vines to ensnare The Beast, he would panic, the edelwood roots would soon choke out his pumpkin vines.

It was so hungry, so empty, so needy. Eons had passed and in all the time he could feel The Beast’s quaking hunger thrumming through the land. Enoch’s streamers wrapped about the rafters tightened around the wood cracking under the pressure.  
The eldritch that Enoch had tried hard to bury under a guise of humanity snapping at its bonds.

Leagues away he could hear beyond the realm of human hearing The Voice Of The Night belting out through the woods luring a soul to an earthly grave, to devour the soul in hopes that it would smother the hunger.

Like chipping away a mountain range with a paint brush. Enoch shook with a desire- a need to fill the gaping hole in the world. His facade was cracking, his stitches trying to pull themselves apart.

The Beast was as old as the wilderness, and Enoch as old as the grave, and as long as the two had existed they had been a paradox. Enoch was a grave with an eternal peace and The Beast an eternal life with a gnawing hunger that consumed his every action.

This was foolish, tricking the great eldritch in him by entertaining the possibility but now the beast would not be quieted until it could pour out seeping into the land. He quaked in the barn, his streamers betrayed him each one fighting to get out. They shot about the barn, through the loft over the windows. If they could get out through any knot hole they would. 

They pulled beneath the barn doors, shooting from gaps in the woodwork. His fabric mouth rips open hay spilling out as real fangs a sharp gaping maw shifted into place. He writes in his barn trying to go everywhere at once, to surround the hunger and drown it. Submerge it in fulfillment. 

A shriek tore itself from him tearing across the land. Pottsfeilders woke in their beds with a start, wolves turned their heads in the wood and howled along with the shriek, deep in the woods birds started into the sky, a fawn and a buck vaulting over downed trees from the sound.

Deep in the wood a tall beast with dark fur turned its great head, its antlers drag against the trunks of trees, the lantern hanging in them swings as dead lights stare in the direction of Pottsfeild.

Suddenly from the brush a buck blind sighted the dark creature, its antlers clash with the figure’s own knocking them both to the forest floor. The deer’s neck is snapped in their grappling. Slowly the cloaked man raised himself from the carpet of rotting leaves.

The sound rings out again and the brush is alive, running past him rodents, rats and mice and rabbits flashing past his feet, more deer leap over their fallen companion bounding past him, wolves- frothing at the mouth eyes rings of colors- snap at the heels of the deer fleeing the sound. The moon is blacked out as birds of all feathers flee, on the tail end of the stampede, a black turtle.

Wicked things, drove the forest animals mad, they didn't flee from anything, not even him, he takes a broad step, his foot comes down hard on the small creature cracking the shell and killing the creature as it’s magic flits out from his now crushed form staining the snow crimson.

He’s not afraid of anything, he’s the most dangerous things in these woods, he is the monster above all, the shadow on the moon, The Beast, but he finds his feet carry him in the other direction.

Slowly at first, raising to a gallop through the forest following the trail of crushed pants left by the animals, within seconds he is upon the herd and he runs with them.

Miles away the door of Enoch’s barn burst open; the giant doors swinging wide, and in a surge of ribbons the giant maypole emerged through the doors. His plenty is sloshing over through his form, rolling off of him, a dangerous plenty, anything mortal that passes through the deadly aura withers and dies. To much of a good thing is lethal, and tonight, Enoch is out for blood.

His mouth is stitching itself back together hiding the eldritch maw. The great maypole turned its head tilting it slowly to the horizon. The ribbons caught in the barn but the god of the harvest pulled snapping his ribbons.

They seemed to grow back as soon as the ripped away. He can feel the hunger it's moving away from him, gliding along the well trimmed roads in Pottsfeild he can feel his own need clawing at his insides.

To give and give and give. It's like it knows there is an endless emptiness close by, so it creates more and more to give. He reached beyond the physical pain, he could not risk spreading himself out in order to give before he was not physically there. But if he tried just right he could tempt the hunger, The Beast might not accept his offers the souls that made up his body would not give up an attempt to be fed.

Deep in the thicket the Beast drew up sharp as if coming to the end of an invisible leash. His souls try to drag him in the other direction but he is firm on going forward, they are at a standstill. He can hear their voices chorusing around him with only one thought.

At the edge of the forest the harvest deity could hear them too, 

WeneedWeneedWeneedWeneedWeneedWeneedWeneedWeneedWeneedWeneed

But the harvest deity could hear something else, they were no more but a teapot in need to be filled, beneath their cries he could feel a desert in need of his soothing rains.

IneedIneedIneedIneedIneedIneedIneedIneedIneedIneedIneedIneed

The Beast is panting it's exhausting trying to hold back his dripping hunger, it claws at his gut he feels like he is being ripped apart. He stands there perfectly still at war with himself desperately trying to ignore the plethora of enough that creeps steadily closer.

A trail of shredded corn silk ribbons hang on the branches of trees as the Prince of Plenty moved deeper. Thorns snagged is tendrils but he continued onwards. 

Two sides of the Beast’s mind were at war, and neither was his logic, hunger and fear grappled with each other. He could hear the sounds of ribbons ghosting over dead leaves and brushing dirt only a few meters away. The Beast’s body shook as both sides jockeyed for control. 

As the ribbons gently crept forward, wrapping around his chest, then looping around his neck like a noose, in that moment everything shatters, fear wins out. He lunges forward bolting only a second to late, his body is yanked back as the ribbons lashed out tangling him in them. 

The splinters of his bark and his antlers snared on the ribbons ensnaring him in a cocoon of greens and oranges, he can smell Enoch.

The maypole smells heavily of cider and molasses, Enoch is excited, he can feel the plenty pushing at the edges of his mind making it hard to think straight. In a sudden flash of realization he knew what Enoch was going to do.

Panic flashed through his being, the simple fact was The Beast wasn't sure what would happen if Enoch tried to fill his soul. In a blind panic he tore at the cloth with his claws, he snapped at them with his teeth and ripped and tore. Much to the amusement of Enoch, he only entangled himself more.

It hit him like an avalanche. It felt like being plunged into the river. He froze in the tangled grasp of the pumpkin king. He was burning through what he was given so fast, but Enoch could give faster.

Limp in the tangles of ribbon Enoch could feel The Beast devouring through everything he gave him. Still pouring into the limp body in his coils, he dragged his prize through the forest, back over the fields of Pottsfeild.

The sun was coming up over the mountains. A small wood cutting family gaped at the harvest god holding a weakly struggling eater of hopes in his ribbons. Enoch would have to make sure something happened to them, The Beast was terribly prideful and loved his reputation.

When The Beast awoke he felt strange. He felt… sated. He tried to lift himself, only to find himself trapped. A surge of panic flitted through him and his eyes shot open only to feel the edge of his panic shaved and dulled down. What was he worried about?

He was caught he felt like a fly in a spider’s web. He felt like prey. Even as the negative thought poured into his mind a sudden surge of… something washed it away in a flood.

Over him Enoch arched over him, still giving. The Beast was oddly touched, however he still felt like prey. Enoch seemed to be in a trance, humming an odd tune which sounded vaguely like The Mayor’s Hunting, he let out a sharp huff, how fitting, the song he used to lull his prey into a false sense of security.

Starting to move he felt, slow, Enoch’s head jerked up and fixed on the beast. The Beast shifted in his grasp as he did Enoch sent another torrent of plenty to befuddle his mind but he was ready for it this time.

The lord of plenty had taken him by surprise last night, but not today. He threw up his shields around his mind, they were weak, crafted on a whim they would not hold Enoch out forever. He doubted if they would hold Enoch out for a minute. Hopefully the shields would hold out until he could get out of the streamers surrounding him like a coffin.

He began to thrash and he could smell a bolt of panic go through Enoch, slashing through the restraints with his claws he bit and snapped at any of the green tendrils that moved about him. His antlers were caught up tight in the god’s ribbons. Tugging his head he realized there was no delicate way out of this, he would have to rip the streamers from Enoch’s head.

He snapped his head so fast he could hear the tearing sound. As soon as he was mostly free he sprinted across the loft leaping through the cracked window, bounding across the open fields streaming green ribbons which still writhed with life trying to trap him. Vaulting into his woods, he knew he had to get far enough from the border that Enoch held no power.

He is on the verge, the cusp between autumn and winter. His trees begin to turn against him catching him he claws and snaps at them, but they do not fall back. Soon the shadow of the harvest lord hangs over him. He tries to find his voice its scratchy and his shields are quickly falling as the god’s very essence washes over him. It's like the harvest god is trying to kill him. 

“Enoch.” Yes that comes out sounding about right. “Enoch, stop, you are going to kill me.” As he says it he realizes that might be exactly what Enoch is trying to do, instead of stealing the lantern he so coveted the god of skins was trying to kill him by overwhelming him.

But as soon as the words leave his mouth the flood stops. He can breathe again, slowly he lets his shields fall, panting like a wounded animal. He can smell Enoch as he gets closer. He was surprised the god had followed him into his forest as a maypole, the god could shuck his skins as easily as one shucks corn.

He smells Enoch’s horror before he sees it.

“I-I…” The god peters out. The plants begin to shrink away and The Beast stands.

“I apologize, I lost myself to day dreams and it seems it bled into reality.” The Beast lets out a harsh laugh at that.

“You day dream of filling my soul?” He can hardly contain the humor in his voice, the lord of harvest, god of plenty, daydreams about trying to fill his soul. 

“Yes.” That answer is surprisingly assured. “I am deeply sorry, I honestly never meant to allow it to come to this.”

“Farewell Enoch.” The Beast turns walking into his wood, he can feel the maypole slouch down behind him.

“Oh and Enoch,” He calls over his shoulder, the god looks up surprised. “Give me a little warning when your going to do that again.” 

The Beast doesn't even need to sent the air to tell Enoch is already excited, but the smell of molasses is rather nice.


End file.
